Battle Scars
by ohsoxalive
Summary: [Where's your battle scar?, he answers them by slamming a fist to his heart, frowns, and walks away.] mild angst with mild shipping. postwar, Sokka.


**a/n Hm. I love Sokka's character, there's so many aspects of his life you can write about. So, I chose the future. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender or any of it's character.**

* * *

They expected so much from him. 

He was supposed to be the first one married, the one with the biggest family, and the one with the happiest and simplest life.

Everyone had already pictured it. A house either in the cold or on some island, in a small town where he would know everyone. His humor and sarcasm would always be remembered, but his smile would leave an effect on everyone.

Sokka was _supposed_ to be that person.

He even believed it himself.

It took one day to change that.

A day where only the sweat on his brow and the tears on his face were the only source of shining light in a dark battlefield. His footsteps, and his breath made the difference between life and death for the people around him.

The sight of ripped golden fan sitting in a red puddle under a full moon nearly killed him.

It was then, when Sokka rose from his scraped knees and held his weapon high above his head, to fight for everything that was ever taken away from him.

That was why he was standing in the North Pole, an old man, with an even older past, who stands before a another new crowd of young students.

He's a man, whose joy and bright smile vanished in just one day of his long life.

The weapon in his hands, which he made himself, is what he swings every day. It is what he used to make sure he lived on that horrible day in history, and it is what he teaches to his students with bright blue eyes and even brighter spirits.

He remembers what it felt like to be so young.

_And he misses it so much like the people he loved._

Alone, he's become everything they thought he would _never_ be.

In the distance, he stands with a thick parka as the furs of his coat toss in the wind under a starry sky. White, like the snow crunching beneath his feet, is appearing on his beard due to the age of time.

He kneels before dark moon, and prays to the spirit he knows so very well.

Only few people know about the golden fan that is in his shirt pocket, right above his heart.

His sister's comments, "_why do you remind me of Master Pakku so much?"_, are ignored and left to dust in the corner of his lonely room as he leaves for another day of work.

He's heard the whispers behind his stern back from the nosy woman in the huge nation. "_he's just another veteran that's lost too much." _The noisy children who skip their prayers and treat the war as if it were a holiday make him scowl.

There's the other men his age, as the the newest generation of children run and laugh around the room. Most, not all, but most always ask each other the same question.. That same question that makes him want to _scream._

They gather around, pulling up their sleeves and shirts, with prideful smirks on their faces.

"_This is my battle scar. Where's yours?"_

His mind would race back to a time to when he would sit on the back of the world's only bison, the wind in his hair, and the smiles of his friends around him. There's a jerk of a becoming smile on the end of his lips, but everything crashes down like that horrible comet on that horrible day.

Sokka glances at the others as they wait for him to answer, because they _know_ who he is, and they know his past and story that started at just the age of fifteen.

Instead of pointing at the visible scar on his neck and the others that are scattered across his dark body, he slams a fist on his heart and walks away, frowning.

"_You think you know pain? Think again."  
_

Sokka's shadow towers over the ignorant children who hold a weapon for the first time, and their small noses raise high into the air with pride as they stare into the eyes of a man who took years to become a true master, and a man, from true bloody experience.

"_Master Sokka, when can _I_ really fight? I _want_ to be in a _real battle!"

His hand brushed against his aching chest, right where he keeps his loves forever, as he stares into the distance of the rising moon.

"No, you don't."


End file.
